Caregiving

What Aladdin Knew About Appearances

This time of year has become a difficult and confusing one and I am just learning to roll with my emotions rather than fight them. As I’ve written, as a teacher, summer is a delight. Unfortunately, summer comes with painful memories of much time at doctors and in the emergency room with my dad. And, in 2015, it was the time that Ben declined drastically, spent the summer in the hospital, and ultimately, passed away just before I began a new school year. It stands to reason that at this time of year I find myself dwelling on and reliving the many things that happened during Ben’s hospital stay. I think of the assumptions people made of Ben when they saw him in a scooter or electric wheelchair, or spoke with him and maybe had difficulty understanding him. I have learned that, as Aladdin said, the outside tells one story, but what is going on inside our hearts and minds that really counts.

ALS slowly stripped away Ben’s ability to move his limbs, chew and swallow, and it also caused his speech to be impaired. He was bravely determined to maintain as “normal” a routine as he could, despite those struggles. Of course, he did not like what was happening to him, and because ALS does not affect cognitive skills, he was well aware of what was going on. ALS was part of every single thing we did, every single day. But, he was more than the ALS that constrained him on the outside. Inside, he was still Ben.

With ALS came Ben’s deep feelings of alienation. Ben noticed that people changed with regard to their interactions with him. As it became harder to understand him, some people stopped trying. Speaking by phone was difficult because it was more difficult to understand him and because he could not always answer the phone quickly, so he would have to return calls. Some people sent texts because Ben could access those on his computer and could use a virtual keyboard to reply. I was always happy to come home and find him corresponding with someone because it kept him engaged in the world and let him know that people thought of him. But, in large part, he was alienated. His abilities had become limited, but he had not. And, he was hurt.

When we were outside and he was in his electric scooter, he chuckled because he said that his speech impairment seemed to lead people to believe that he was mentally challenged. I was glad that he usually found humor when people spoke to him as if they were speaking to a child. But, it did frustrate him when, upon hearing his speech impairment, people ignored him and only addressed me. I took the lead in these situations, turning to him and directing questions to him. Some people realized quickly that he could communicate, but others clearly lacked the patience. As his advocate who loved him, I lacked patience with those people.

When Ben went to the hospital, he was given a Bipap mask and put on a ventilator. This was a whole different kind of problem in understanding him. It was the first time that I had to try to read his lips, and it was challenging because the mask obscured his mouth. Aside from the fear of being in the emergency room and not knowing what was going to happen, it was extremely frustrating for him not to be understood. It was frustrating for me not to be able to understand him.

Once admitted into the hospital, we learned a way to spell out each word. Imagine spelling out each word that you say: For each word, letter by letter, first, I asked if it was a vowel. Then, I asked him if the letter was in the first half of the alphabet or the second. Once determined, I proceeded to spell out the alphabet until he nodded that I’d hit the right letter. Sometimes I could figure out the word quickly without all of the spelling. Not often enough. I wrote out the words and sentences. It was taxing. There were times that he shook his head rather than go through the process. When you are not expressing yourself, you begin to lose yourself.

A hospital is a busy place. Nurses, residents, doctors, medical students and a lot of other staff members filed in and out of the room. If Ben’s mask shifted, the alarm rang, which was stressful and scary, though easily remedied. Sometimes, people tried to talk to Ben. Most of the time, they talked to me instead, and they often did that right in front of him. Ben could not even move his hands or arms to signal that he had something to say. This was one of the reasons why, although people told me that I was spending too much time in the hospital, I felt compelled to be there. Also, Ben could not call for help. People did not always take the time to ask him questions and simply checked the numbers on the machines. On a certain level, it was understandable that staff was busy and as long as he was safe, they were doing their jobs and Ben was as stable as he could be in his condition.

What people did not realize is that what they saw on the outside was contrary to was going on inside Ben’s mind. Ben had a lot of opinions, he understood what was being said and asked, and, most of all, he mattered and he needed to know that. I found that a critical role that I played was as a facilitator of discussions between Ben and hospital staff, as well as visitors.

When people addressed me without acknowledging Ben, I turned to him and immediately engaged him in the conversation. I showed people how we spelled out words. I did not let people put words in his mouth. I also asked a lot of yes/no questions, which made it easier for him to respond. On the outside, Ben may not have appeared to be a vibrant person, but he was. Even I needed to remind myself of that when I got so caught up in caregiving responsibilities that I didn’t pay attention to who we were as a couple. I showed him love by holding hands, looking into his eyes and letting him know that even if we were struggling to communicate, I was there for him.

If you are in a position where you are visiting or dealing with someone who has difficulty communicating, please do not ignore that person. Acknowledge his or her presence. Show the person that they matter and are more than their medical issues. If there is a caregiver to help, still involve the person in your discussion. Express kindness and compassion and really look at them to see deep inside the person you truly know. Don’t assume that what you see on the outside is what is on inside.

ALS, Disney, Aladdin,Genie,Caregiving,Grief

If I’d known when I met Genie that Ben would get ALS, I would have asked him to grant the wish of a cure.

July 6 and True Love’s Kiss

ALS,Walt Disney World

A PhotoPass photographer caught this moment in front of the Castle at Walt Disney World. It was actually the first time we returned after Ben’s ALS diagnosis in 2010

The beginning of July should be a great time for me. After all, I’m a teacher, and school ended on June 28.  On the last day of school, I did my annual Snoopy Happy Dance and left the school building with a big smile on my face. The thing is, for me, summer is now filled with a lot of sad memories, even though I am reshaping my life and do have more joy. Today, July 6, marks the second anniversary of the day that Ben had a respiratory crisis and we ended up in the Emergency Room at Mount Sinai Medical Center, where we were met by Ben’s hero and doctor, David Muller, who would, over the course of that summer, become my hero, too. Today was the date when everything changed for us, because this was the summer where Ben succumbed to ALS.

I cannot help but think back to how that summer of 2015 began on a difficult note. Ben had decided, without conferring with me, that he would let go his private home health aide on the last day of school  and that I would take care of him 24/7 for the summer, with a few hours of assistance during the week from a home health aide provided by hospice. To be honest, I was upset and I was also worried. Logistically, how would I even run any errands? Emotionally, I could not understand, and was hurt, that Ben did not realize how difficult-physically and mentally- it was to be his caregiver around the clock, or that he did not think it was something that we should discuss. Although, two years later, I can rationalize my thinking and my reactions, I still feel bad about it, because I would do anything to have him here and healthy today. As it turned out, that summer was spent at the hospital, I was at his side day and night, and I did not want to be anywhere else.

Yes, for me July 6 was the beginning of the end and the memories are still vivid. I remember being in the Emergency Room and meeting with teams of doctors, while also contacting our ALS chapter. I had spent so much time in Emergency Rooms with my dad that they were sort of my normal, but Ben being in crisis was not normal. I remember Ben having different masks on to try to find the most comfortable and effective one, while we struggled to communicate because he couldn’t speak and I could barely read his lips through the mask. And yet, I remember sweet moments, and laughing, too. I remember that I couldn’t kiss him when he had the Bipap mask, so we blinked our eyes tight to show a kiss. How ironic that July 6 is International Kissing Day! But, as the song from Cinderella goes, “So this is love” when you are dealing with ALS- a different kind of true love’s kiss.

Ben had always said that he wanted to do anything to stay alive, but once in the hospital, he wanted to rethink that choice. Many visits and emails with Dr. Muller helped us sort through a lot of that. I’ve written about this a lot on the blog, but it is worth repeating that I told Ben that I would support any decision he made, because only he could decide how he wanted to live and die with ALS (click here to read Sometimes the Right Path is not the Easiest One). It was not easy to grapple with the complications that arose during his hospitalization, and to have doctors explain that these complications were indicators that this would be life with a feeding tube and tracheostomy. It was heart-wrenching to have Ben say he was miserable and then, having made the decision to go to hospice, ask me to help him choose a good day to die. I don’t think those memories will ever become easier. I was not prepared to lose him because his drastic decline was so rapid. For the same reason, he was not prepared to have to make the decision to separate from the ventilator and leave.

It is touching and consoling that music proves to be so important to my healing and to my memories. Every single morning, I listen to a playlist of songs that Ben loved and that were significant during our relationship and that summer. Ben would love that. I cannot forget how the song “One Dance” was my reality check, and the song during which I completely gave in to the devastation.  I am reposting the video with that song. To read my post about the song’s profound significance, click here.

Last summer was my first summer in many years without caregiving responsibilities. I felt lost and conflicted about all of the sadness mixed with the potential to actually enjoy the summer. The first anniversary of losing Ben loomed over the whole summer. I launched this blog during that time, and it has been invaluable in terms of thinking through my own emotions and feelings, dealing with grief, and interacting with so many incredible people who are also taking journeys with ALS or other illnesses, caregiving, and grief.

As I faced the beginning of summer vacation, particularly today, I have dealt with tidal waves of emotion and difficult memories that are woven into my glee at the summer freedom from school. I wonder if the approach of summer will ever come anxiety. It helps me to reflect on memories and events, even though my emotions are Inside Out. Intellectually, I can see that despite being someone who cries easily, I have grown a lot in the past two years, in terms of my perspective and my devotion to caregiving and caregivers, with an especially deep connection to people dealing with ALS. I think that would make Ben and my dad happy. I do find comfort in my conviction that Ben is in a place where he is free from the constraints of ALS, and he is talking, eating, dancing, walking and playing his music. At the same time, I miss him and still find myself talking to him and seeing things through his eyes. These mixed emotions have become a way of life. I chose to write this post because although it has been two years and there are still, and always will be, tears and broad spectrum of memories, I know that this is the unsteady rhythm of life and death and love and loss, but it’s all okay. Summer will be okay. Ups and downs are okay. I’m okay, even if I don’t feel that way at this exact moment. My Disney connections still keep me focused and able to deal with the sad times and the loss. After all, “Love is a Song that Never Ends” and, as Belle’s father Maurice said, “It is love we must hold onto.”

 

Happy Anniversary, Lilo and Stitch!

ALS, Walt Disney World, Lilo and Stitch

The very first time we met Stitch, October 2006!

On this date in 2002, Lilo and Stich (Walt Disney Pictures) was released. I have loved Stitch since I saw that film. When Ben and I went to Walt Disney World and I had read that Stitch could be found at the Magic Kingdom, I was on a mission to find him. Ben was very patient!  In honor of the film and my buddy Stitch, here are some photos from our visits to Walt Disney World over the years. Ben liked taking pictures of me with Stitch because he was my good buddy and Ben got a kick out of that. I look at those photos and even though Ben was the photographer, in my mind and in my memories, he is so present in those moments and I can vividly see him laughing. I am so grateful for these memories.

Halloween with my buddy in 2010. Ben could still take photos at this point, which makes this picture especially sentimental.

I think the funniest memory I have is from our 2012 trip. Walt Disney World has many and great accessible restrooms, which made life much easier for Ben. I would get Ben situated and wait outside because he couldn’t walk to lock the door. Also, I could hear him if he needed assistance. One day, while I was waiting for Ben, Stitch walked by and I yelled hello to him. OK, yelled a lot, with much waving. Moments later, Ben called to me. As I helped him into his scooter, he couldn’t stop laughing, imitating my calling Stitch and saying that he started wondering how he was going to get himself out of the bathroom because he knew Stitch was one of my favorite friends and he thought I might abandon him! I did not! And, I’m not telling if I thought about it!

I love this little guy!

I hunted him down at the Animal Kingdom in 2007!

On our last visit in July 2014, Ben knew that one of the things I had always wanted to do was have breakfast at the Polynesian Hotel with Lilo and Stitch. I had not mentioned it because it was a long commute from our own hotel and I didn’t want to tire Ben. But, he wanted us to have that experience. I think Ben wanted to laugh at me gushing at Stitch, which, of course, I did! Stitch was his adorable self, as was Lilo. They were very attentive and considerate of Ben and his inability to get out of his seat. It was an incredible time that I will never forget, particularly wonderful because it was a brand new memory, as opposed to memories we were trying to recreate to almost try to turn back time to the days before ALS. I will never forget the magical connection that Ben and I felt when we were at Walt Disney World.

July 2014, Breakfast at the Polynesian Hotel.

Stitch gave Ben some extra love!

Happy Anniversary, Lilo and Stitch!

Happy Birthday, Donald Duck! And, Thank You!

Happy Birthday, Donald Duck!

Remembering Donald’s birthday prompted me to yet again revisit all of our photographs from Walt Disney World. I have been feeling a little emotional these days. I think it is the nearing of the two year anniversary that Ben went into the emergency room and everything changed. Summer also signals the anniversary of the summer spent at the hospital and the summer that Ben succumbed to the ALS. It’s never been my favorite season- I hate the heat, but now there is the added set of memories. I definitely feel a certain level of anxiety, but as Dory taught me, I just keep swimming.

I find myself poring over the photographs with a smile on my face, and yes, also some tears. Donald was always so much fun at the meet and greets. And, being a Spanish teacher, I did especially love when he was at the Mexico pavilion at Epcot.

I share these photos because photos and memories have played such an important and positive part of my dealing with the rough times of watching Ben decline as his ALS progressed, and dealing with grief. It does not mean that I don’t get upset or lament the times we will never have.  But, I also think about how lucky we were to share this love of Disney that always shed much needed pixie dust on our lives.  Donald is part of those special memories that comfort me. So, with gratitude and joy, I say Happy Birthday to Donald Duck.

New Chairs- Old and New Memories

I’ve written about changes I made to my apartment after Ben passed away. The painting and recarpeting had to be done- the ALS battle scars were so huge. There are things I’ve displayed and put on the walls that remind me of him and of us and I love to be surrounded by these things and memories. But then there was his table, the ugly table he used as a desk that even he didn’t like. I thought it would be easy to replace it, and I picked a little dining table that I was excited about. But, when I started to think about not having his table anymore, it was very emotional for me. I decided to keep it and use it for baking, because Ben would love that. To read my post about what happened to that table, and things that matter, click here.

I have been looking for dining chairs since I got the new dining table.  Imagine my delight when Ethan Allen launched its Disney line (click here to visit the site)!  I fell in love with the Mickey Mouse dining chairs and had to order them. I thought about replacing Ben’s desk chair, because the foam on the arms is completely falling apart and it is not as sturdy as it used to be. That chair holds many memories, some good and some bad.  I sit in it every day and remember how that chair functioned as Ben’s desk chair and, also, as his wheelchair, because it was narrower than a wheelchair and could get through the narrow doorway to the bedroom.  I dragged the rolling chair to and from the bedroom every day. I transferred him from that chair a few times a day. We always worried that it would collapse, and thank goodness it never did.  He sat in that chair all day.  I fed him meals, shaved him and we watched tv and had our conversations while he was in that chair. I still find myself looking at the chair and talking to Ben when I need some kind of an answer or sign from him. The thought of not having the chair here made me cry. The chair is staying. The memories, good and bad, and the smiles and tears, are part of what our life was with ALS, and it all matters.

The chairs arrived on Saturday. They are beautiful. Ben would love them. But, right now I am coexisting with them. They don’t quite belong yet. It’s like the holiday ornaments I purchased when I went to London in October (click here for more about that.) I tried to create the tree exactly as Ben and I had it, with our ornaments in precisely the places where Ben liked them because he could see them from his desk. The new ones were jarring. Now, these chairs are jarring. It’s hard to enjoy them completely without Ben. I know in my heart that he would be happy for me. But, he’s not here to enjoy them with me, so it’s kind of bittersweet.

I know that I have to create new memories in my home. I still struggle with that. I hope that my friends will visit and enjoy the chairs and meals that I will prepare. And, as we look around the apartment, I do hope that they will also feel and celebrate Ben’s presence. As I find new ways to relate to Ben, I know and take comfort in that he will always remain a part of everything I do.

ALS,Grief

I always picture Ben like this, in his chair at his desk. The chair stays!